


A Thousand Ways to Die In Jerusalem

by Sent2TheBeast



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Violence, First Meetings, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sent2TheBeast/pseuds/Sent2TheBeast
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolo fight a war, discover their immortality, dream of one another, and kill each other....many times.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Yusuf x nicolo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be advised that any and all depictions of islamophobia or anti-semitism that may be involved in this fic are reflections of the historical belief/ignorance of the Crusaders at the time and are not my own thoughts or feelings.

It had been months. Months of starving and marching, months of killing and dying, months of praying to God for salvation and victory and finally they were here. Jerusalem, the Holy Land. Nicolo could scarcely believe it was within reach. He was sweating under the weight of his armor, under the weight of what it meant to walk where Jesus had. After weeks of preparation, they had finally broken through the walls, laying waste to all those that stood against them. 

Nicolo had always been a focused man. A goal once set was always completed. He had long ago stopped keeping track of the sleep he had lost to writing sermons. Though he had replaced his quill with a sword, he took equal care in the movement of his weapon as he did to the workings of his pen. Amongst the chaos of battle, Nicolo made swift work, blood spilled like ink across the ground. He did not yet understand the absurdity of his current service, murdering in the name of God. 

Nicolo loved God, and so he slaughtered blindly, cutting down Muslims and Jews alike to prove his devotion. 

Nicolo loved God so he denied himself the time to take in the beauty of Jerusalem in favor of adding another soldier to the corpses that gathered around him. 

Nicolo loved God, so he let their blood dry on his skin like sacramental wine.

Nicolo grunted with effort, parrying another soldier’s weapon, thrusting his own sword upward, piercing through the soldier’s hauberk. The man impaled upon his blade let out a cry, his raised sabre dropping with a clatter from his hand.

“We have claimed this holy land in the name of God,” Nicolo whispered into his enemy’s ear, pushing his sword deeper into his chest. “It is ours by right and by b-”

His final words were cut short by the tip of a dagger in his lungs. Nicolo’s grasp on the soldier weakened, and the man dropped to the ground, becoming anonymous against the rest of the dead. Nicolo clutched at his side, searching desperately for the wound. His hand came back warm, wet, and red. Nicolo’s brow furrowed in confusion. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he was supposed to see this war through to the end. To walk freely through Jerusalem with his brothers and revel in the holiness of the sky. Nicolo fell to his knees desperate for air that would not come, suffocating on his own bitter blood, searching blindly for his sword, touching slick earth and dead flesh instead. His vision went blurry, light gave way to darkness, pain to weightlessness, the cacophony of drums, horses, and screams of agony turned to blissful, merciful silence. 

Then came the dreams. 

A woman, dark hair, tired eyes, charging into battle on the back of a horse. 

An axe, dripping blood. 

A man, dark skin, staring up at the sky. Holding his insides in his hands. 

A woman with a bright smile. The sound of a battle cry. 

Bow and arrow, a blur of metal. 

A man. Curly brown hair, tanned skin. Brown eyes full of light and fury. 

Enchanting eyes. 

Nicolo came gasping back to life as he had gone gasping into death. The first thing he became aware of was the light, and for a moment all Nicolo felt was relief. But relief faded to despair as the world came in to focus, as he realized he was not awaiting judgement, but was back on the battlefield. The sound came next, a symphony of discordant noise, though it matched the pace and rhythm of Nicolo’s racing mind. He grasped at his side, and though there was a hole in his armor, the skin beneath the chainmail was smooth. Not a scratch nor a scar. Nicolo lurched forward, trying to steady himself, but met ground without purchase, too slick with blood, and he lost his grip collapsing against the carrion beneath him. 

There was no stopping the onslaught of war that waged around him, but Nicolo took no notice. Nicolo had felt himself fade away, had felt his heart stop. But here he was, surrounded by people, surrounded by war, surrounded by fighters, and entirely alive. There were piles of bodies at his feet, carnage to a level he had never seen, and he was hit with the understanding that he should be amongst them. He had died serving God, why had he not arrived in Heaven?

He was a man lost at sea, lost in the desert, consumed by the sheer vastness of a loneliness he could not see an end to. He stared at the corpses beneath his fists, the crooked, bloody mouths of his brothers and his enemies, if God had given him back, surely there must be a reason. Right? Nicolo swallowed his fear, cast aside his confusion and despair, turned it into rage. He found his sword, pushed himself upright, and charged back into the fray. 

___

Yusuf was there when the Crusaders took the outer wall, he watched in furious horror as his friends, his brethren were cut down without mercy or pause. This was his home, and he had watched its glory being cut down and poisoned over the past few weeks in a desperate attempt to keep the Christians at bay. In the beginning, when the Crusaders had retreated, Yusuf had allowed himself to hope that he would remain safe inside the Holy Land. Then the ships had come with more soldiers, weapons, and supplies and siege had been laid to the walls.

 _Are these fools so addicted to power?_ Yusuf thought, as he readied himself for battle, watched the city fall before his eyes, _they are blind to how they violate their own teachings?_ Did they not understand how to treat sacred land as such? They wanted blood, not God, Yusuf knew. These men had paved a path of sin across the world, and now they were at his door. He was going to fight, to his last breath, to the last beat of his heart to protect his home. He steadied himself, shook the nerves out of his chest, and raised his sabre. 

He met the wall of Crusaders with a scream. Within seconds he was overcome with the smell of sweat, blood, and dust. His ears were ringing with the sound of clashing metal, charging horses, and screaming. Noise which could not be swallowed by the drums reverberating around in his skull, fueling his anger. Seconds passed like decades in the hell he had gone running into. Yusuf ignored the burning in his muscles, focusing instead on cutting through whoever stood in his way. His vision was rooted on the path ahead, desperate to keep his body between the Crusaders and his city. 

Which is why the sword through his back came as a surprise. 

Yusuf let out a cry of alarm, his weapon clattering to the ground as he clawed at the hole where his stomach had been. Yusuf lost control of his legs, collapsing face first, what little air was left in him was forced out as his chest slammed against the ground, as he was trampled by hundreds of charging feet. The last thing he heard was a sickening crunch, pain that ricocheted around his skull. 

And then a woman came into focus. Her hair tied back in a loose braid, her lip curled up in a snarl, her eyes calm, calculating, and ancient.

A man, his chin spattered with blood- his own -though Yusuf was unsure of how he knew it. He was watching the sky, a sense of relief spreading across his face. 

A woman, her face full of light, a sharp smile that matched her sharp brow. She brushed hair out of her face, calluses on her fingers and her forearm. 

A man wearing a hood of chain mail, lips turned down in a concentrated frown, brow furrowed. His hands clutching the hilt of a sword. Hands stained with ink and blood. 

Yusuf came rocketing back to life in a silent world. He shouted in surprise as he awoke,face to face with the unblinking eyes of a fallen soldier. He pushed himself upward, tucking his legs underneath him. But, that wasn’t right, he thought, clutching his thigh. He had taken a sword through the spine. He had felt his muscles tense and weaken. He wiggled his toes. He was finding it difficult to breathe. He clutched with bloody fingers at the edge of his helmet, and forced it off. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the light, wiped the sweat from his brow, and groaned, taking a survey of the scene. 

He was met with a massacre, the dirt beneath his feet had turned to water, red and rotting the flies had already started to gather in the summer heat. He was unsure of how long he had been unconscious, but the battle had moved deeper into the city. Yusuf was alone, the only living being in a field of death. He had never known isolation like this before. But he had made a promise to himself to fight until his final breath. He found his weapon, wiped the blade clean, and stumbled toward the sounds of war.

____

Nicolo growled in frustration as he narrowly avoided being gutted by the edge of a sword. He was losing focus, his mind racing a mile a minute. _How was he alive? Who were those people in his dream? Had he imagined the whole thing?_ No, that wasn’t possible, he could still taste the blood on his tongue. He winced as he caught the tip of a blade to his shoulder. 

“Neque istud,” Nicolo stated, and slit the man’s throat without a second thought. He felt his skin grow tight, felt it crawl across his wound, the sharp pain turning into something dull and almost forgotten. Under normal circumstances it would have given him pause, but before he could ponder what was happening, he saw a man from across the battlefield. His heart skipped a beat, _His eyes._

 _His hands_. Yusuf had been cutting his way through the crowd, death and rage incarnate, when he noticed the hands. Ink and blood. 

“'ant,” Yusuf spat, _you_. 

“Vos,” Nicolo mused, _you_. 

In an instant all the fear, the uncertainty, the loneliness they had just experienced turned to understanding, purpose, and drive. They had died in this war and dreamed of one another and returned renewed to their mortal coils. This could be nothing more than fate, than destiny. They had not died, because they had not yet found one another, their divine enemy. Without a second thought, without a second word, Yusuf and Nicolo raised their swords, and charged one another and were struck by a wave of relief as the world went dark and cold around them.

An axe

A bow

Two women

A dying man. 

No eyes. No hands. 

Life forced its way back into their chests, desperate and hungry for a fight. Yusuf pushed aside the urge to vomit as the world spun around him, and pulled himself up on his knees, blinking away his headache. The Crusader was laying face down in a puddle of blood, dark and red as wine. Yusuf tapped the body gently with his foot and nearly jumped out of his skin when the body moaned in pain. Before he could get out of the way, Nicolo grabbed at Yusuf’s ankle, toppling him to the ground. Yusuf’s sabre went clattering out of reach, and the men were left to trading blows. 

Nicolo saw stars as his head was slammed against the dirt, he tasted blood in his mouth. He swung out, with all the force he could muster, and collided with his enemy’s jaw. Yusuf lost his grip to the pain shooting up his cheek. He pressed his hand to his face wiping the blood from his nose and giving Nicolo enough time to scramble upwards, surveying the field for where he had dropped his sword. Nicolo caught a fist to his throat and wheezed, doubling over desperate for breath. He sneered, intense fury burning in his eyes, lunged forward, fingers wrapping around the edge of Yusuf’s armor, toppling him down to the ground. Nicolo poured the dread of what was happening to him into his fists. He landed blow after blow, trying desperately to force the eyes out of his mind. Yusuf cried out, hands searching blindly for purchase and eventually met skin, clawing at Nicolo’s face.

Nicolo lost the image of Yusuf’s eyes to the blood and sweat that dripped from his brow. Yusuf seized the opportunity to shift his weight, knocking Nicolo to his side. Yusuf rolled away as far as he could, found his sabre in the dirt, spun around to catch a blade to the soft spot of his chin, and up through the roof of his mouth. He tried to speak, but could only choke on the iron against his tongue. Nicolo did not get to revel in his victory, struggling to breathe against the sword embedded in his chest. Nicolo watched the man on his blade chuckle darkly as he clawed for air. For the second time today, Nicolo choked on his own blood. 

They collapsed on top of one another, the world once again slipping through their fingertips like sand. 

Horses galloping. 

A woman grinning. 

A woman shouting. 

A man bleeding. 

A sword. 

Adventure. 

Joy. 

Rage. 

Love. 

No eyes. 

No hands. 

The first thing Nicolo felt was pressure across his torso. He frowned ever so slightly as he took in the scene, trying to process the situation he was in. There was an arm wrapped around him, heavy and grounding. At first it felt serene, to be cradled this way, as if he had merely been asleep. But the tender nature of this touch turned sour as Nicolo traced the arm and found it was attached to the man from his dream. 

The first thing Yusuf felt was metal, unrelenting and cold against his skin. He groaned, blinking out the summer sun, and pulled his focus back to get a better understanding of his situation. He was resting on his side, his arm draped across armor. Before he could make a move otherwise his gaze was cut by blue eyes, wide and confused. There was a moment of tense and awkward realization between the pair as they processed their embrace before they pushed themselves away from another, grabbed their weapons, and leapt to their feet. With equal strength and skill the men began a deadly dance, killing one another with a devotion they usually reserved for prayer. 

Yusuf’s throat was cut

Nicolo’s skull was split open

A broken neck 

A severed spine. 

Punctured lung 

Suffocation 

Arterial bleeding 

Gutted like a fish. 

Life and death rose and fell like the ocean inside them, and every time death swept them out to sea, ghosts of women, men, weapons, and war followed them. In the darkness they wished desperately to see the shining eyes and painted hands inside their dreams, waking up to one another instead.

They took no notice of the way their flesh knitted itself back together, convinced that the other’s continued existence after fatal injury was a trick of the light, a misplacement of their blade, tired hallucinations. They circled one another, their focus like razors, sharp and unforgiving, suspicion, caution, and rage growing with every step they took to avoid one another. Like a flash of lightning Nicolo reacted, Yusuf avoided the blade, lunging backward, but his heel met stone. He could go no further. Their weapons clashed together parry after parry until Yusuf was trapped, pinned against the wall by a blade to his throat. But Nicolo had made an error in his judgement, and found a sabre underneath his chin. They stood there for a moment, panting, weighing the options, understanding the impasse. 

“I have slaughtered you in every way I know.” Yusuf began in Arabic, turning his wrist so he could tilt Nicolo’s chin upward with the edge of his blade, forcing the Crusader to look him in the eye. “I have baptised the battlefield with your blood, and yet here you stand.” Yusuf smiled, bright and taunting "Why does God not want you?” 

“I have given your soul to Azriel,” Nicolo’s Latin was stoic, his voice and face betraying nothing of the fear and doubt he harbored. “I have sent you to Paradise more times than I can count, why do you reject my gifts?” Nicolo pressed the blade tighter against Yusuf’s throat, watched as blood welled up along his neck, tracing red lines across Nicolo’s blade. 

Yusuf’s skin knit itself back together almost as soon as it had been cut, and Nicolo’s brow furrowed ever so slightly in fascination . Nicolo leaned forward, applying more pressure, ignoring the bite of his enemy’s blade against his own throat. It was strange to be studied like this, Yusuf thought, as curiosity bloomed behind the Crusader’s eyes. Nicolo sucked in a breath, eyes flitting between Yusuf’s face, his neck, the sword. He was struggling, Yusuf realized, and was surprised to discover how easy it was to pick apart the subtleties in this man’s face. 

“'ant mutadarib,” Yusuf breathed in wonder, more to himself than he had intended. _You’re conflicted_. 

Nicolo did not understand what it was the man had said, but he noticed the way his face softened when he spoke. They stood there, like statues frozen in time, until Nicolo swore under his breath and dropped his sword to his side. After a moment, Yusuf followed suit. Yusuf watched the man’s jaw tighten, watched uncertainty turn to resolve on this man’s face. Nicolo inhaled sharply, and began to speak. Whatever it was the Crusader wanted to say died on his lips as a crossbow bolt warped the metal of his helmet and pierced through his eye. Yusuf fought the urge to catch him as Nicolo collapsed into a pile at his feet. 

“He was _mine_ ,” Yusuf shouted at the soldier who had loosed the deadly arrow.

“You’re welcome,” the soldier replied, annoyed he went rushing back into battle. 

Yusuf’s attention was captured by the sound of a wet, agonized gasp. He watched in awe as the body beneath him began to writhe, as the bolt slowly pushed its way out of Nicolo’s eye, hitting the ground with an unceremonious clatter. In all his years Yusuf had never seen anything like this. This was demonic, this was sorcery, this wasn’t possible. _How could this be?_ Yusuf thought, as the creature beneath him cried out in pain, rolled onto his side, and pressed a shaking hand against his forehead, rubbing at his eye. 

“Quid hoc fecisti mihi?” Nicolo asked the sky, _why are you doing this to me?_ Surely he had fought enough, surely he had fulfilled his duty to God. He had killed this Maghrebi time and time again, it was not his fault the bastard wouldn’t die. _Guess I’ll have to finish the job,_ Nicolo thought, resolve taking root in his heart. He tightened the grip on his longsword, swinging upward with a strength and dexterity he hardly recognized in himself. Blood spurted from Yusuf’s leg like a waterfall, raining across Nicolo’s face. 

Yusuf lost control of his legs once again, dropping to his knees. A panicked desire for survival kicked in, forcing him to drop his weapon and press his hands tightly to the gash across his thigh. He felt the sword cut his throat a moment later. 

Nicolo had killed him too quickly last time, he decided, pressing the tip of his blade into the ground, leaning on it like a crutch to help him stand. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, he would make sure to do a thorough job this time. He raised his sword above his head, took a moment to calculate where exactly he should aim, and froze. He watched, unblinking as the wound in Yusuf’s neck began to close. _Impossible_. Nicolo took a step back, pulled a wooden pendant of the cross from around his neck, and held it in front of him. _This is the work of the devil_ , _it_ _cannot be anything else_. 

“'iidha kunt tuhawil mueaqibatay, fa'ant tasli lila'iilih alkhata” Yusuf coughed weakly, taking notice of the cross. He scratched at his neck where the whisper of his injury was echoing. _If you are trying to punish me, you’re praying to the wrong God_. 

“Quid agis vivit?” Nicolo could not help but ask, _how are you alive?_

Yusuf had not known exhaustion until this very moment, it weighed on him like lead. He had promised himself and his city he would fight until his last breath, until the last beat of his heart. But he had drawn his last breath a dozen times during this battle, and he was beginning to grow concerned about the feasibility of keeping his word. He took Nicolo’s question as an opportunity to stand. 

‘Giatí ísoun sto óneiró mou?” Nicolo spoke in Greek this time, in hopes he might be understood. _Why were you in my dream?_

Yusuf felt a shiver up his spine as he processed the weight of the question. “Giatí ísoun sto dikó mou?” Yusuf replied, _why were you in mine?_

“How…? Who…? I-, I do not understand how this is possible,” Nicolo swallowed his fear, tried to keep his words as steady as possible. Perhaps this was the devil testing his will, his conviction, but what Nicolo had just witnessed was too intriguing to ignore. He had never experienced a desire like this before, he wanted desperately to understand what brand of miracle this was. 

Yusuf marvelled at how this man was capable of remaining so calm, so collected under this amount of pressure. Yusuf felt like crying, or screaming, felt like shouting to the heavens, calling Allah down to Earth to have words, to figure out what kind of twisted game he was playing.

There was a glint, metal and sunshine streaking through the sky.

“No!” Nicolo shouted, lunging forward and shoving Yusuf out of the way. Yusuf caught himself before he fell, and spun around with just enough time to notice Nicolo’s hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword, the hilt of a sword that had been planted two inches into his neck. The Crusader that had dealt the blow spit on Nicolo’s body. 

“Proditor,” he added, kicking Nicolo’s corpse, _traitor_. Yusuf could only stand in shock, had this man just...saved his life? Had this man just willfully, purposefully thrown himself in front of his Christian brother’s sword to...spare him?

He did not have much time to ponder the question as the soldier wrenched his weapon from Nicolo’s body and turned his attention toward Yusuf. The fight did not last long, the man had underestimated the kind of day Yusuf was having. Yusuf looked between the dead man at his feet, and the dead man who had spared his life. He waited for a moment to see if the same magic that had pushed a crossbow bolt out of an eye would bind this deep a wound. He took a step towards Nicolo, stopped to ponder what it was he was doing here and what he was hoping to get out of his next move, then turned around, and ran further into Jerusalem. 

Nicolo was beginning to lose count of how many times he had woken up alone on this battlefield, but he was getting rather sick of it. At no point in his journey to Jerusalem had Nicolo decided he was going to sacrifice himself for a Muslim in combat, but he’d been having a particularly unusual day. Nicolo hadn’t quite realized what he had done until he was bleeding out. All he knew was an aching need to understand who this man was and what they were supposed to be to one another if not enemies. He half expected to see Yusuf standing over him when he finally made sense of where he was. But the man was nowhere to be seen. Nicolo scanned the dead and satisfied that there were no faces he recognized, pulled himself up on unsteady feet and ran deeper into the city. 

Everything hurt, but this pain was more ethereal than Nicolo was used to. A phantom that haunted all the fatal wounds, like splinters buried deep. He was weary, running on instinct, spurred into motion by intrigue. If he had allowed himself a moment to think, he would have found a quiet place to rest, would have suffocated the flames of curiosity until the thought of today had burned away to ashes in his mind, and then we would have gone home. 

But instead he pressed onward, compelled to find this unkillable man. There was a ringing in his ears as he struggled his way through the streets, the clamor of battle giving way to a tense silence, as if the entire city was holding its breath in fear. It felt...wrong, Nicolo realized as he walked, there should be life in a city as beautiful as this one. His foot hit something soft, he paused at the sensation, unfamiliar with what type earth would feel this way beneath his boot. He froze as if his bones were made of ice when he realized it was a child, his body twisted and mangled. Whatever thoughts came next were interrupted by a piercing scream. 

Nicolo did not believe it wise to linger, and went running towards the sound. Nicolo rounded the corner, taking stock of the woman bleeding out into the street, watched the Crusaders that stood over her body laugh, clean their blade on her dress, and turn to face a stack of barrels by the wall. 

“Come on out you little mice, we just want to play,” they said, stalking slowly forward. Nicolo noticed the top of a tiny head peek out from the corner, and immediately duck out of sight once more. The Crusaders looked at one another, lunging forward they grabbed the children, dragging them from their hiding spots. 

Nicolo stumbled forward on instinct “My brothers,” he called with a casual smile that did not spread to the rest of his face. “How are you today?” 

The men shared a silent thought and Nicolo took the opportunity to survey the children, took notice of the terror in their eyes. 

“God has smiled upon us,” one of them replied. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Celebrating our victory in Jerusalem.” 

“Celebrating,” Nicolo repeated, trying and failing to hide the sarcasm in his voice, “by killing women?”

“Celebrating,” another retorted “by cleansing the city”

A rage Nicolo had never known boiled over, and before he could quite contain it he heard himself say “They are children!”

The Crusaders laughed, genuine and deep, their hands slipping unconsciously from the kids shoulders. 

“No,” the largest of the group replied. “They are Jews”

Nicolo took a surprised step back, as if he had just been slapped across the face by an iron gauntlet. The Crusade, it was supposed to be good. It was supposed to be right and just. Nicolo had come to Jerusalem to take the holy land from the hands of idol worshippers, not to murder them for their beliefs. There was nothing sacred, nothing Godly about slaughtering children.

“Did God not spare the Isrealites?” Nicolo asked the monsters that stood before him. “Did God not believe in salvation for converts? We are fighting a war, they are not soldiers, they are innocents in all of this,” 

“They are not innocent, they believe this land is theirs and we have stolen it from them. They will grow up resenting Christian rule, and when they are old enough they will take up arms against us and enact their revenge.”

“A fine justification,” Nicolo replied, “but I can’t let you hurt them,” 

You would turn against your brothers? For the enemy?” the man’s words were thick with outrage. The children took the distraction to inch slowly toward an exit. 

“Women and children are not the enemy,” Nicolo lifted his sword. 

“Three against one?” the men drew their weapons, spit at Nicolo’s feet “This is not a fight you can win, traitor,” 

“Perhaps not,” Nicolo readied himself “but I’ve been having a particularly strange day,” 

Nicolo dove into battle, a flurry of parries and blows. The men were right, Nicolo knew this of course, three to one was impossible odds, but Nicolo had only wanted to buy the children time to escape. Nicolo blocked an incoming strike from one man’s weapon and cried out in pain as he caught the tip of another soldier’s sword. He swung his blade downward, taking a chunk out of one of the Crusader’s legs. He doubted the wound was fatal, but there was a chance it might slow him down. Nicolo fought them off for as long as he could, praying to God that the children would be safe. 

This time, Nicolo died with a smile on his face. 

__

Yusuf ran his fingers along the walls of the city, committing the feeling of his home to memory. He walked the streets aimlessly, finding bittersweet joy in this small pocket of peace. Though Jerusalem was being destroyed before his very eyes, there were some places the war had yet to meet, and Yusuf whispered thanks to Allah for granting him the time to remember the city as it was. Some part of him knew it would be the last time he saw his home like this. 

The moment was spoiled by the sound of distant screaming. Yusuf took another second, eyes wide and bright tracing every detail in his mind, before he forced himself from safety and went in search of the shriek. He picked up the pace at the sound of fighting, but was intercepted in his arrival by two children barreling down the street as fast as they could. 

Taking notice of Yusuf, the children made a beeline straight for him, throwing themselves down at his feet, their tiny bodies wracked with sobs. 

“Sir! Sir! Please” the oldest began in Arabic, sniffling into Yusuf’s boots. “Please, there are men after us,” 

Yusuf crouched down to meet their gaze. “Do not fear,” he soothed, giving them a soft smile, wiping the tears from their cheeks “I will keep you safe.” Yusuf stood up, helping the children to their feet. “How many men were there?” he asked, eyes trained on the direction of the fighting as he walked them quickly back the way he had come, away from the more present danger. 

“Three,” 

“Three?!” he coughed, realizing that he sounded more panicked than he should. “How did you get away?”

“There was a man,” the younger child added “another man, like them, but not,” 

“A Crusader,” the older child clarified, before Yusuf could even ask. “He seemed like he was their friend. But then they said something that made him really angry. He got in a fight with them, and we ran away,” 

Yusuf pretended not to notice the sounds of the fighting had died down, he drew his sword slowly from it’s sheath, let it dangle casually at his side. The children took no notice, continuing their story.

“Well it sounds like you were very brave,” Yusuf said, kneeling down to meet their gaze. “But I need you to be brave for a little longer, can you do that for me?” 

“W-why?” 

“Because I said I would protect you,” three against one, Yusuf had to hope that whoever it was that had picked the first fight had taken at least one out with him. “And the fighting just stopped. So I want you to hide, right there,” He pointed to an abandoned home. “And I want you to stay very very quiet until I come and get you, can you do that?” 

“But-” 

“You will be safer in there for now, where there is a chance they won’t see you. You will both be fine, I promise.

Yusuf’’s heart shattered as he watched the children’s lips quiver, then pause, steely resolve replacing the fear in their eyes. They nodded, and went running for cover. Yusuf took a deep breath, shook out his hands, rolled his neck, and waited in tense anticipation. 

Within minutes two soldiers turned the corner, emptiness behind their eyes, rage across their faces. One of the men was injured, Yusuf realized, his skin clammy and alarmingly pale. Yusuf wasn’t thrilled about his chances, but all things considered, this was a more ideal scenario than he could have hoped for. 

“marhabaan,” Yusuf greeted,  _ hello. _

The Crusaders charged forward, no formalities, no introductions, just addiction to power and death. Yusuf parried a blow, kicking himself for losing his shield. He inched forward, slowly, making sure he allowed them no opportunity to flank. Yusuf went for the wounded man first, he was in pain, moving far more sluggish than his companion. He lunged forward, steel meeting steel, forced his blade down and deepened the gash on the Crusader’s leg. The man’s knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground. Yusuf spun around, extending his arm, circling the man who was still standing. Yusuf kept backing up, going further down the road the Crusaders had just come through, trying to lure the man as far away from the children’s hiding place as he could. 

Yusuf caught the hilt of a blade to the back of his neck. His vision went black, then white, and he lost his balance, tripping forward, barely managing to catch himself before he went face first into the ground.  _ Ah, there was the third.  _

He reached for his blade, but it was kicked away from him before he had the chance. Yusuf looked up, blinking away the headache that was beginning to brew. The men circled him like vultures, jeering and taunting with words Yusuf did not care to understand. He groaned in pain as hands grabbed at his hair, tugging him up, forcing him to kneel, to look these men in the eye. 

Yusuf cursed the men in every language he could. The one that held his hair spit in Yusuf’s face in reply. Yusuf sucked in a breath, and slammed his forehead as hard as he could into his captors face. The man went reeling backward, and Yusuf tried once again to grab for his sword, only to feel something sharp press against his neck.

Yusuf wasn’t sure if Azreal was still turning a blind eye on him today, but if he went out here, at least he managed to give one man a face that matched the ugliness of his soul. It wasn’t fair these monsters got to walk around hiding their wickedness. The Crusader clutched at his mouth, trying to plug the hole his teeth had left in his lip. 

“Tu properas mori hodie” the man’s voice was muffled.  _ You’re going to die today. _ The man leaned down, picking up Yusuf’s weapon, running a finger gently near its edge. Yusuf sneered, refusing to break eye contact with the man in front of him. He was beginning to grow bored with the theatrics of this, if he was going to die, they might as well just get it over with. There was no need to draw it out. The Crusader raised Yusuf’s sword high, and swung it downward toward Yusuf’s head. The arch was interrupted by the shout, the clashing of a sword, and three quick turns of a wrist which sent Yusuf’s sword clattering to the ground. 

“D-Diabolus,” the man behind Yusuf exclaimed, the grip on Yusuf’s hair loosened as his captor backed away, making the sign of the cross. Yusuf took the opportunity to dive out of the way, grabbing his sabre from the ground, and rolling upward, readying his stance. 

The world went slow and still as Yusuf surveyed the scene, found a sense of calm in the sound of his own breath. The first thing he noticed was the hands, ink and blood; then the arms, on guard, defensive; the face: focused, concentrated, furious. But for the first time today that quiet, controlled anger was not trained on Yusuf...it was directed at his fellow soldier. Yusuf stepped behind Nicolo, as he made a move toward the retreating Crusader. The world snapped into place as Yusuf’s sword collided against his enemy’s shield. Fighting back to back with the man in his dreams? Yusuf felt a rush of energy he had not expected. Together they made quick work of the remaining Crusaders. A comfortable silence settled between them, the last sliver of conflict evaporating in the summer heat. 

__

“limadha 'anqadhtni?” Yusuf asked after a moment, not expecting a response.  _ Why did you save me? _

“Nescio quae-” Nicolo began, but the reply died in his throat as he took notice of something up the way. Yusuf turned to meet his gaze, and grinned, waving at the timid forms. 

“You are safe,” Yusuf called to them in Arabic, trying to ignore the deliberate steps of the Crusader at his side. 

“You found him,” The older child replied. 

“Found who?” Yusuf asked. 

“The man we told you about,” said the younger, running over to place a tentative hug on Nicolo’s leg. “The one who distracted the soldiers,” 

“Tous sózeis?” Yusuf turned to face the Crusader, taking notice of the quick way he turned his eyes to the ground, almost guiltily,  _ you saved them? _

Nicolo rubbed at the back of his neck, caught off-guard by how deeply this man’s eyes were boring into him. 

“We should continue moving,” Nicolo replied. 

Yusuf nodded, scanning the street to determine the best path forward “la tuqaliq , sanusiluk 'iilaa almasjid,” Yusuf told the children as they walked,  _ do not worry, we’ll get you to the mosque.  _

“Wait,” Nicolo interrupted in Greek, “I know this word ‘masjid’. You want to take them to a mosque?” 

Yusuf was starting to reach the limit of his knowledge of the language. “Yes, the mosque. It’s safe,” 

“No,” Nicolo retorted, and was surprised when the man in front of him laughed. 

“la taqalaq ya masihiun,” He smiled into his words, musical and full of life “ln yadrubak allah min alsama' li'ana qadamak fi masjid”

_ Do not worry, Christian, God will not smite you down from Heaven for stepping foot in a mosque.  _

Though Nicolo did not understand what Yusuf had said, he gathered the man had not realized the urgency in his voice. 

“No,” he said again in Greek “It is not safe for the children,” 

“Mosques have always been safe,” 

“Not this time,” and Yusuf marvelled at how this man’s voice could be so controlled, so cool when there was such fear and uncertainty flickering behind his eyes “If the men back there are any indication, my people do not care about women or children, mosques or synagogues, they will murder every person they can find. We need to get them out of Jerusalem.” 

“I am sorry, I do not understand.” Yusuf replied calmly, and it gave Nicolo pause. This man had every reason not to trust him, to be angry, to shout, to storm off, to ignore what Nicolo had to say. But instead, this man with the curly hair, with the shining eyes and soft smile, was actually trying to listen. How could a satanist be so full of grace? 

“The ‘masjid’ is not safe. Not from Christians. We need to leave Jerusalem,” 

Nicolo had expected the other man to put up more of a fight, but after a brief moment of contemplation he simply said “Okay,” 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Nicolo did not have the time to take in the sunset, as he rushed to the camp they had set up outside the city, leading two horses and as many supplies as he could find back with him. He tried not to think too deeply about the fact that he was about to spend the evening in the company of a Muslim and Jews, the very people he was supposed to hate. How had his life changed so drastically in the course of a single afternoon? 

Yusuf was just finishing his maghrib salat when Nicolo returned to camp. Nicolo said nothing as he arrived, too caught up in his own head. Battle weary, and honestly hoping for a distraction, he set to work removing his armor. He sighed in relief as the evening air brushed against his skin. There was a tug at his side, and Nicolo looked down to find the older child staring back at him, holding one of the waterskins he had brought back to camp. 

“Tes mains,” the boy said in French, miming the cupping of his palms.  _ Your hands _ . 

Nicolo’s brow raised ever so slightly, but he complied with the child’s request. The water was delightfully cool rushing over his fingertips, he watched it turn a murky pink in his fists as he washed away the blood from the day. By the time he had finished, the other man had started a fire. Without a word, Nicolo placed the evening’s meal down near Yusuf’s feet and took a seat in the sand as far away from him as possible. 

The silence was tense and suffocating, Nicolo and Yusuf watched the children pick half-heartedly at their food. Nicolo could not help but feel sorry for them, watching their mother die in front of them, what fear they must have felt, must still be feeling. Yusuf was thinking much the same. “Mmm,” he proclaimed loudly, taking a large bite of his food “this is absolutely delicious,” he said in Arabic, exaggerating his enjoyment of the meal. “One of the best things I’ve ever eaten.” 

The children looked at Yusuf curiously, then to one another as if to ensure they were on the same page. After a few seconds, the children dug more seriously into their dinners. Nicolo did not have the words to participate, but he was content in this moment to listen to the quiet conversation. It was soothing in a way Nicolo did not expect, and he was confronted yet again with the sheer humanity of their words, whether or not he could understand them. 

Nicolo listened as to the way the man before him spoke, the way his hands danced in the air when he gesticulated. Nicolo lip quirked upward when in the middle of his story, Yusuf made a funny face. The children laughed in response. It was the first smile he had seen from these children all day. Nicolo prayed he would not get caught staring. He wasn’t trying to be rude, it was just...this man seemed so at ease, so gentle and kind with these children, and Nicolo hadn’t expected that. How long had Nicolo spent being taught that men who did not follow Christ were idol worshippers and satanists? He had never known anything else. But, surely there were exceptions? 

_ There had to be exceptions _ , he thought, for when he looked at this man, the gentle smile, the light in his eyes, and the forgiveness in his heart, it was not Satan he saw reflected back at him, but God. 

The children fell asleep soon after, and Nicolo was left biting back anxiety as he realized he was now completely alone with a man he had tried to kill no less than ten times that very day. Yusuf could sense his discomfort and moved closer to the Crusader, though he kept his eyes on the children’s sleeping forms. 

“Why did you help them?” Yusuf asked, finally finding the courage to look the Christian in the eyes. 

“They are children,” Nicolo commented, without hesitation “Not soldiers, they played no part in this war,” 

Yusuf made a sound of acknowledgement. It was a sincere answer, yet it didn’t bring Yusuf any comfort. The tribulations of the day flashed through his mind. “Then why did you help me?” 

Nicolo frowned, a tiny little thing, almost imperceptible if one was not paying close attention, but it was accompanied by a deep and weary sigh. “Curiosity,” 

“Why are you letting me help?” Nicolo quiered after a pause. 

“Curiosity,” Yusuf replied, and neither man could stop the small smile or the light chuckle that escaped their lips. There was a lighthearted, almost teasing tone that entered his voice as he told the Crusader in Arabic, reveling in his ignorance of the language, “I would kill you, if I thought your death would stick,” 

All conversation stopped for a while after that. Yusuf traced patterns into the sand, sketching the city as best as he could while Nicolo worked through the beginnings of an existential crisis. Flashes haunted him each time he closed his eyes, flashes of that sacrifice, betraying his people for a man he barely knew. His spiral was interrupted by the sound of tiny sobs. 

Without thinking, Nicolo rose and walked over to where the younger child lay, trembling in the sand. “Do not cry, little one,” he said in Latin, taking a seat by her side. He nearly lost his balance, as she shot upward, wrapping her arms around him, and burying her face into his chest. He could feel his shirt grow wet with her tears. Caught off guard, it took him a second to move, bringing his arms in to wrap her in a tight, comforting hug. “I’m so sorry,” Nicolo rocked her gently back and forth, swaying like a tree caught in the wind. “But I promise you will be okay,” he traced small circles across her back, the way his mother had when he was younger. 

Yusuf looked up from his sketch, drawn in by the sound of the Crusader’s voice which carried low and soothing across the night. Though he spoke in a language Yusuf did not understand, he knew the makings of a story when he heard one. He tried to tear himself away, tried to tell himself he was not interested in anything a Christian could possibly have to say, especially after today, after the death they had rained down upon his home. But there were too many unanswered questions, too much intrigue in the circumstances of his current situation, it was impossible to ignore. 

Yusuf watched as he lifted the child from the ground, and paced in tight controlled lines. A smile flashed across Yusuf’s face, quick as lighting, as the little girl burrowed herself into Nicolo’s neck. How strange it was that children could be so quick to trust and to forgive. The longer Yusuf sat, the stronger the realization grew that the man before him was a walking contradiction. He fought with evil in his mind yet kindness in his heart, carried a seriousness in his eyes but a sincerity in his voice, and moved with a hardened posture but softness in his hands. There was no forgiving the atrocities that had been committed against his people, Yusuf knew, but he was beginning to understand too that human life was not without its complications; and there was something to be said for the sacrifices this Christian had made when faced with the actual consequences of his ill-guided war. 

When he was certain the child had returned to sleep, Nicolo placed her tentatively back into her bedroll, and returned to his place by the fire. His eyes caught the edges of the artwork the Maghrebi was working on. An outline of Jerusalem, crafted with obvious love and expert skill. Yusuf froze, face flushing much to his chagrin, as the intensity of the Crusader’s stare washed over him. Yusuf turned to face him. 

Nicolo averted his gaze as quickly as he could, furious that he had been discovered. “It’s beautiful,” he said, and in the same breath was hit with a realization that threatened to crush him under its weight. He had travelled all this way to claim Jerusalem, and because of choices he had made he would not get to stay. Because of choices he had made, these children and the man he sat next to had been forced out of their home forever. 

Perhaps he had been thinking about his life all wrong. Perhaps it was not his destiny to kill the man at his side. Perhaps this tentative alliance, the intrigue that simmered low within his chest was not against God. They had killed each other on the battlefield, they had left whatever life they knew behind them for the sake of a child. Perhaps it was God’s will that they should meet, brought together to protect the innocent, not murder the damned. 

Either way, Nicolo figured they had gone on a little too long as strangers. 

“My name is Nicolo by the way,” he stated, offering his hand. “Nicolo di Genova,” 

“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim al-Tayyib al-Kaysani,” he said and shook Nicolo’s hand. 

“Hello,” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please feel free to leave a comment here or reach out on tumblr @fatal-vision.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, if you know any of the languages used in this fic, please forgive any and all grammatical issues, I had to Google Translate the Arabic, Greek, and Latin!


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